In those days, one of the places my mother chose to spend her time and my father’s money was in the jonquil-yellow sanctum of a man touted as a “Shear Genius:” Kenneth Battelle or just “Kenneth” to his clients; among them, Jackie Kennedy, Lauren Bacall, Babe Paley and . . . yes, well, my mother.
Though Kenneth’s style was self effacing, his ambition was not and he had a hand in iconic images of the time that endure to this day: Jackie’s lanky bangs and asymmetrical flip under that watermelon pink hat on the day JFK was shot in Dallas. Marilyn Monroe’s teased platinum wave for her hot, breathy rendition of “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” at Madison Square Garden in 1962.
Like my mother, Kenneth had been a talented child born in a backwater to a family that struggled through the Depression, all of which rendered him susceptible to the Hollywood glamour peddled in films of his youth.
Syracuse couldn’t confine him as Brooklyn couldn’t confine my mother. For both, Manhattan was Mecca. I think they understood each other.
By the time I met Kenneth, my mother seemed happier with me as I'd emerged from my overweight tweens into a svelte and fashionable teen, hair straightened, eyelashes carefully glued so you couldn’t tell. Toward the end of High School, I occasionally met her in Manhattan.
One day, she asked me to meet her at Kenneth’s which turned out to be a Renaissance Revival townhouse just East of Fifth Avenue in the 50s. With its paisley walls, blue chandeliers and women in beautiful shoes sitting under gleaming beehive dryers it was a Felliniesque pampering palace.
My mother came out to the first floor landing, her hair in Kenneth’s signature bouffant, tendrils flowing down the sides with that wide, on-stage smile, signaling me that we were "in public". It also let me know she was pleased with how I’d showed up: in my lavender-grey wool coat with lamb cuffs and collar that set off the different shades of brown in my hair.
Kenneth appeared a moment later in an elegant suit, an odd costume, I thought, for a hairdresser; odder still for someone with his boyish, trickster looks in this bizarre, flamboyant scene. Lederhosen or a Mariachi get up would have seemed less surprising. My mother proudly introduced us, whereupon, Kenneth took a big lock of my hair in his hand, feeling its weight. “Yup, she’s got gorgeous hair,” he said to her as he was called away. He’d never even said hello. My once-despised hair had finally arrived, though its owner was very far behind.